What Happens in Spencer Gifts Stays There
by SuperKateB
Summary: Crossover with "CSI." Two men are attracted to the same bumper sticker while in a mall in Virgina. (Implied BugNigel and GrissomGreg.)


"**What Happens in Spencer Gifts Stays in Spencer Gifts"  
****A Crossing Jordan/CSI Crossover Fanfiction  
****Written by Kate "SuperKate" Butler**

Nigel Townsend, for all intents and purposes, was bored out of his ever-loving mind.

Lounging on the stiff-backed iron bench in the middle of an Arlington, Virginia food court, he slurped forlornly at the last of his Orange Julius and studied the giant, light-up clock over the building's west entrance. The seconds clicked by as the minute hand moved to line up perfectly with the two.

3:10 p.m.

Sighing, Nigel lulled his head against the back of the bench and moaned. "Dammit, Buggles, I wanted to stay in the hotel all day, but no," he muttered to no one in particular, watching as a handful of giggling preteens wandered past. "'You're going to be bored out of your skull,' he argued, 'and room service has refused to come to our room any more. I'll drop you off at the mall. You can window shop and look for souvenirs to bring Jordan and Lily. I pick you up at 5.'" Another fleeting glance at the clock revealed that a whole two minutes had passed, and he lobbed his empty cup into the nearest garbage can. "Bloody Hell, Bug, you didn't tell me this mall would be so boring."

Forcing himself to his feet, the ME stretched his long arms up over his head and began to shuffle a slow circle around the mall for a second time. He'd known going into it – or at least, getting into the car – that tagging along to his better half's annual entomology convention in Arlington would be far from a tropical vacation involving chaise lounges and drinks with little umbrellas in them. He'd been right on all those accounts; the eight hours a day that sequestered Bug in lectures on fruit flies or whatever else the Indian man studied were dreadfully boring, leaving Nigel to drown his sorrows in club sandwiches and daytime television. But now, with room service charges through the roof (near-literally), he was stranded in a nameless, characterless mall amongst blue-haired ladies and giggling bottle blondes.

Pathetic.

Then, suddenly, he saw the Shangri-La of mass-produced malls: Spencer Gifts. Beloved for its always amusing, often raunchy, and undeniably playful collection of novelty items and knickknacks, Spencer Gifts had often amused Nigel and horrified Bug during "short" trips to their local mall. (Visits to Hot Topic, after all, had been thoroughly banned by the much shorter man after their initial trip there, several weeks earlier.) There was, after all, no laughter more sweet than the look on Bug's face when his mental processes finished and the meaning of "Save a horse – ride a cowboy" finally became evident.

Nigel grinned and wandered through the door.

He could not, as hard as he tried, recall actually visiting the store on his first adventure through the mall. Of course, if he remembered correctly – and he rarely forgot – he'd been following behind a particularly muscular security guard with a particularly tight posterior, so it made more than casual sense that he would fail to notice the shop on the first time past. All the better, considering that now, he was one of only two patrons in the relatively large shop, allowing him to laugh aloud at some of the clever tees and posters that decorated the space.

Within a half hour, he'd not only chosen two not-quite-hideous snow globes to bring his lovely female coworkers trapped back in Boston, but had also selected a particularly naughty shot glass emblazoned with the saying "There's a sucker born every minute, but swallowers are hard to find."

(He realized that Bug would probably not speak to him for a few hours once he saw his gift, and then assign the shot glass a place of honor in the top-most, back-most corner of his kitchen cabinets beside the X-Rated cookie cutters, but the pain would be well worth it.)

Nearly ready to check out, Nigel found his attention pulled to the bumper sticker rack, thanks to one sticker in particular. He snickered mercilessly as he strode boldly to the rack, hand outstretched and ready to snag one up…

…and promptly ran smack dab into another person.

The stranger teetered for a moment and then fell squarely on his ass, and Nigel blanched immediately, setting down his purchases to be on the nearest shelf. "Bloody Hell, I'm sorry, mate," he apologized, offering out a hand to the person – a young man, probably his own age – on the floor. An attractive young man, he amended with a slight smirk as a strong hand gripped his own and pulled.

"Hey, it's cool," shrugged the stranger as he released Nigel's grip and began to brush off his posterior. "I wasn't paying attention, since I found this amazing bumper sticker for my…" He paused briefly, and raked a hand through his spiky, gold-tipped hair. "For my colleague. He's – well, we're – in town on business."

Reaching forward, he snagged a bumper sticker from the rack and held it up, showing off the bright white print and black background. "For the entomology convention, as dorky as that is," he continued, gesturing to the message. "He'll probably smack me for buying him something that says 'I see dead bugs,' but he also fails to realize I have the car today." He smirked. "I win."

"Ah, so you're an entomology convention widow, too?" The man with the gold-tipped hair took a half step back, his face registering surprise as Nigel, too, tugged an "I see dead bugs" sticker from the rack. "Oh, don't worry, your secret's safe with me," he decided, sticking out a hand. "Nigel Townsend, Boston Medical Examiner's Office. Here for the whirlpool tubs."

The stranger chuckled and shook his hand warmly. "Greg Sanders, Las Vegas Crime Lab. Here for the free trip to the Smithsonian." Nigel arched an eyebrow, and Greg shrugged noncommittally. "What can I say? I have closeted geek tendencies."

"Oh, I was just wondering how a native bloke like yourself could avoid the Smithsonian for this long."

He smirked. "Who said I've never been before?"

"Touché."

Nigel gathered up his purchases and started towards the cash register, slightly amused to find the slender young man following at his heels in a cute, kid-brother sort of way. "So, you're an M.E.?" he questioned curiously as the cashier – a disinterested teenager with bubble-gum pink highlights in her dark hair – rang up his items. "What's that like?"

"It's very similar to analyzing dead bugs, only with dead humans," he teased in response, accepting his bag gratefully. For some strange reason – perhaps it was the dizzying pattern of Greg's green-on-yellow checkered shirt – he moved out of the way but still hung near the cash register, chattering. "My bag is more the criminology behind the crime – trace evidence, little blood mysteries, putting the pieces together." He smirked and shrugged as Greg collected his own bag. "As it stands, I've got a few closeted geek tendencies, myself."

"Seems to be a pretty common thread, then," Greg pointed out with a chuckle as they wandered together out of the shop, bags in hand. "Entomology widows, closeted geeks, buying bumper stickers at Spencer Gifts."

Nigel shrugged. "And why not? Best damned – "

" – store in the universe!" They both laughed, finishing together, and started to meander companionably down the mall's center strip, side by side. "You know, I do mostly trace stuff, too," Greg piped up after a short silence, flashing a charming grin up at the taller man. "Or rather, I did."

"Screwed up on the job, eh?" Nigel shot him a leering grin.

"Got promoted." Greg made a face at him. "Now, I get to play with the crime scene, rather than just the little bits and pieces left over from it." He grinned, sticking his hands in the back pockets of his rather faded jeans. "But man, sometimes, I miss the lab. It's gorgeous: state-of-the-art equipment, amazing computer analysis software, really good acoustics…"

The Brit blinked. "Acoustics?" he inquired, arching an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you listen to music while you work."

"Occasionally. The Ramones and a lot of pop-punk, mostly. I occasionally get into some of the harder stuff when I'm in the right mood."

Nigel couldn't help but frown slightly. "Me too." He paused, stopping in the middle of the corridor. Greg halted as well, confused, and stared up at him. "Tell me, this 'colleague' of yours… What's he like?"

The question caught the slender stranger off guard, and he frowned, his brow creasing. "Gil?" he questioned suspiciously. "He's… I don't know." He shrugged for a moment, eyes glancing up at the ceiling, and Nigel – used to seeing that expression from his friends and, often enough, his lover – realized within seconds that Greg was groping for the right words. "He's sometimes pretty cranky, to be honest. Very analytical and all that jazz. And ridiculously closed off." He shrugged, smiling slightly. "And he really, really, really likes bugs. It's kind of disturbing, really. One time, he tied a dead pig up in a blanket and – "

"Thank you for offering that charming anecdote, but I'll decline." Nigel gritted his teeth slightly at the mental picture and shook his head quickly, attempting to clear away the rather disturbing image that built within. Greg stared up at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for the next bit of conversation. His Adam's apple bobbed, attracting Nigel to his barely-tanned neck and the very beginnings of his chest, exposed by his slightly open shirt.

Idly, studying the curve of Greg's clavicle, he wondered exactly how mad Bug would be if he brought the young man back to the hotel… Just to show him the whirlpool tub, of course.

Still, truth be told – or as much truth as could be told in a split-second – Nigel felt distinctively as though he'd stepped into a tiny corner of his own private bizarro-world, in which all insufferable, severely closeted queer entomologists had perky, punk-loving boyfriends with a penchant for colorful shirts.

He glanced at his watch, surprised to see that, by some miracle of nature or science, the time was nearly 4:30 p.m. "Ack, mate, my ride will be here shortly," he finally said, smoothing his hair with a hand. "I told him I'd meet him in the food court, and – "

Greg, too, noted the time, and nodded. "Gil will skin me alive if I'm late getting him," he replied with a small smile and a playful wink. "And I'm dying to see what he thinks of the nice sticker I'm putting beneath the 'Las Vegas CSI' decal on his back bumper."

They laughed together for a moment, and the young man with the blonde-tipped hair looked meaningfully at Nigel for the briefest of seconds before glancing quickly away again. "Say, Nigel, you're always free to come out to Vegas and check out our lab," he offered, studying the nearest plastic plant with careful consideration. "I mean, you do the whole trace thing, and it really is a good lab. I think you'd be impressed." He paused again, and his lips pursed. "And, I mean, Gil and your, uhm – "

"Bug." Brown eyes flicked back in his direction, and the lanky man smirked. "Don't ask."

"Well, Gil and Bug could, you know, chat creepy crawlers, and we could hit this really awesome club I know on the strip." Nigel smirked as he saw just the faintest tint of pink clamber across Greg's cheeks. "They have great bands play. Mostly indie stuff, but – "

"That might be fun," Nigel replied, his smirk lessening slightly as Greg turned back in his direction. "I'll have to see what my dear Mahesh has to say on the matter. He can be fairly crotchety about such things."

Greg blinked, wide-eyed. "…your 'dear Mahesh' as in Doctor Mahesh Vijayaraghavensatyanaryanamurthy, author of _Beech Blight Aphids: A Study in Entomological Forensics in Cold Cases_?" Nigel nodded weakly and his shorter companion's eyes blossomed further as he smacked his head with a hand. "Gil has been gushing about that article since he got the invitation to the conference, telling me what a genius this oh-so-famous Doctor Vijayaraghavensatyanaryanamurthy is!" He chuckled and shook his head. "It was hilarious. You'd think he was a little kid. Our shifts supervisor, Cath, snapped at him one day when he was babbling about it." He cleared his throat and made a few high-pitched noises. "'Grissom, you're acting like a little kid waiting for Santa – '"

While the Nevada native's impersonation of whoever this Cath character was would probably have floored an informed audience, Nigel held up his hand and halted Greg mid-sentence. "Your Gil is Gil Grissom?" he questioned, eyebrows arching. "The author of _Linear Regression in the Non-Flying Larval Insects of the Southwestern States_?" A slight bob of the gold-tipped head greeted him, and a frown creased Nigel's face. "I hate to say it, mate, but Buggles' been acting the same way with your Grissom."

Greg frowned, and his brown eyes met Nigel's, cold with suspicion. "Hey, Nigel… This is kinda weird, isn't it?"

"Just a tad, I must humbly admit." The Brit smiled slightly. "I guess that ruins the invite to your humble Vegas Crime Lab, no?"

"Naw." The Vegas CSI grinned widely. "It would be so priceless to see Gil's reaction if I brought his beloved Doctor Vijayaraghavensatyanaryanamurthy into his office. It'd be the early Christmas gift that keeps on giving, and besides, all the sayings are true – "

"What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." Nigel finished the saying with him and they laughed, exchanging a friendly handshake that, for some inexplicable reason, also included friendly pats on the back. After a moment, the ex-Londoner dug into his pocket and pulled out his business card, handing it to the other man. "If you ever need some professional advice from a brilliant criminologist on a case, you let me know," he encouraged with a wink. "Or, you know, advice from a brilliant criminologist on dealing with men who get more randy at the sight of a daddy longlegs spider than any long legs you throw at him."

Greg smirked and pocketed the card, producing one of his own. "Right back at you," he replied. "Take care, alright? And let me know if your oh-so-famous 'Bug' likes his bumper sticker."

Nigel waggled his brow. "And you let me know if your Gil kills you for sticking it on his car without permission."

Despite the awkwardness of the situation – and the knowledge that his American twin was living happily in Las Vegas – Nigel found himself wandering back to the entrance of the mall with a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips. So pleasant was his mood that Bug stared inquisitively at him as he clambered into the car and remarked archly, "Well, you seem chipper for someone who left me half a dozen phone messages on how bored he was."

"It ended up being a fine time, pet. A very fine time." He reached for his seatbelt. "How was your day? Were you greatly inspired by your very special speaker?"

The Indian man made a face at him as he started up the ignition. "You don't need to be so smarmy about it," he retorted plainly as he shifted gears and began to back out of the parking lot. "Gil Grissom is an expert in the field, and – "

Nigel's hand found Bug's, and he squeezed it warmly. "I know, love, I know. I'm just teasing you."

Bug smiled but kept his eyes on the road. "I know."

They were a good two-thirds of the way back to the hotel when, suddenly, Nigel's contented smile shifted into a wolfish one and he turned to cock his head at his better half. "Say, Buggles…"

"Hmm?"

"How, exactly, do you feel about Vegas?"

**Fin**.

Standard Disclaimer: Crossing Jordan and related characters belong to Tailwind Productions and NBC. CSI and related characters belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and CBS. And ne'er the twain shall belong to me.

Author's Notes: Being a Bug/Nigel 'shipper AND a Gil/Greg 'shipper brings me into dangerous waters because I find that Nigel and Greg (and Bug and Gil) are a real lot alike. Thusly, we have created this monster, in which the two meet. And it has possibilities for a sequel, which I am definitely considering. I mean, Bug and Nigel running around Vegas with Gil and Greg? Oh, the hilarity! Oh, the angst! Oh, the possibility for raunchy, raunchy foursomes!

(Kidding, there.)

Comments and reviews always appreciated.

March 15, 2005  
1:09 p.m.


End file.
